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London, Whitehall, October 1921

The yellow-brown smog caressed the opaque window pain, as it passed an oily smear oozed behind it as evidence of its passing. The windows are set high in the building, making it impossible to see who is transacting inside, built to the same design as The Old-lady by Soames.

Thomas notes a sulphurous streak in the smog, perhaps the consequence of the street lights being lit outside. The young men in somber suits could easily pass in that place, but the suggestion this is a normal office is broken by the men in military uniform. The merest tip of his finger sends ash towards the tray on the corner if his chair. The smoke from his Morland cigarettes curls up, drawn towards the window pane. He notes this, thinking there is a an opening gas could enter here.

“Major Deacon”, an efficient looking bureaucrat calls from the doorway. He walks in, “Your services are required.”

Rannoch Moor, January 1923

The pit is deep, beneath a tree, overlooking a hill and a stream. “I’m sorry. Rest well” he tumbles the body into the grave, noting where it lies. His family will learn he served the crown, in time, to quote Macbeth there is tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow. He rests on his spade, looks at the two men, tied and gagged, looks again around. “In the old days, men would run the length of four arrows, then they would be hunted by the rest for their actions.” He cuts their bands. “Run”

They start across the bracken moor, this dead wasteland of shrivelled trees, in the direction of the King’s House. He gives them four arrows length, takes a draw on the cigarette and takes aim. They both fall, shot in the upper leg, crippling, a painful death in the winter. He gets into his car and drives towards Glencoe.

London, Whitehall, October 1924

“I am less effective, I need another Jimmy”, the mandarin behind the desk raises his eyes from the ledger in front of him. “We have found someone suitable” he hands him a file, marked wicketkeeper, Deacon opens it.

Glasgow Central Station, November 1924

The bomb shell has become a grizzly rendezvous in Glasgow,a place famed for its dark humour. Deacon stands, trying to not look bored, frequenting Atholl bar and Grand Central Saloon and bar. Finally, he bites, Deacon waits a moment, then follows him out. A good lift. Promising. Deacon nods to his shadow, then pursues him.

Corinthian Club, Merchant City, December 1924
“In my day, it would be the colonies, or cannon fodder for scum like that.” The judge rolls back on his own fat into the enfolding leather seat. He lifts the large whisky, which Deacon notes with distaste is a blend. Which was ironic in a way, as the genealogy Deacon had provided him with was also a blend of bullshit, cunningly designed to hide the fact his grandfather was the illegitimate son of the chambermaid adopted by the aging head of he house as an heir.

“I would tend to agree” Deacon pauses to take a draw on his cigarette, “but the endowment has some rather odd terms attached to it. Kelvin seemed convinced anyone could be reformed, so we either let bankers use it or I’m stuck with some guttersnipe kleptomaniac on a god-awful blasted heath.” His hand drops to his own whisky, an 18 year old Dallas Dhu, “You can see my predicament.”

Highlands, March 1925

The briefest flicker of satisfaction crosses his face as he notes Allistair’s attempt to hide his own handwriting. Deacon drops back towards the Duke’s study, with Allistair distracting the servants, he is free to look through the files in peace, before that harridan tries to make another pass at him over the coffees

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Tessa's Call of Cthulhu Melanctonsmith